KAELLEN
I did not sleep. The stone floor of the antechamber was a cold, unforgiving bed, but I welcomed the discomfort. It was a penance. A physical anchor against the chaos raging in my soul. The fire in the hearth of my chambers had long since died, but the embers of our encounter glowed in my mind, a relentless, tormenting light. I could still feel her skin under my hands, the feverish heat of it giving way to a different kind of heat. I could still see the raw, undisguised need in her eyes, a mirror to the feral, desperate clawing inside my own chest.
My rejection of her had been a physical act of violence. Not against her, but against myself. It had torn from my throat, a guttural sound of self-loathing. To take her like that, when she was lost in the fog of Bond Sickness, when her consent was a feverish dream, not a clear-eyed choice… it would have been a violation. It would have proved Marius right. It would have proved to her, and to me, that I was nothing more than a monster driven by base instinct. The thought was a foul taste in my mouth, a corruption of the king I had to be.
But the beast in me did not care about consent or kingship. It only knew that its mate was near, warm, and willing, and that it had been denied. The denial was a raw, open wound. My Lycan nature, always a simmering presence beneath my controlled exterior, was a caged animal, pacing and snarling, demanding I go back in there and finish what I started.
I pressed my forehead against the cold stone, my hands fisted at my sides. I could feel her through the bond now. The fever had broken, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. The frantic, chaotic energy of her pain and fear had subsided into a quiet, rhythmic thrum of sleep. It was a peaceful, steady pulse that was a constant, maddening lure. I wanted to be in that room. I wanted to be the one she was peacefully sleeping next to, not the monster she feared in her waking hours. The want was a physical ache, a hollow space in my gut that had nothing to do with hunger.
With a groan of pure frustration, I pushed myself to my feet. My body was stiff and sore from the fight in the Crimson Pass, a dull counterpoint to the sharper, more intimate pain of the night’s events. Ronan’s report had been grim. We had lost three good Lycans, but we had driven Marius’s forces back, a Pyrrhic victory that had cost us blood and bought us a little time. It was the kind of tactical problem I could solve. I could analyze troop movements, anticipate enemy strategy, and make the hard calls. This… this woman in the other room… she was a problem that defied all logic, a variable that refused to be quantified.
I needed coffee. I needed strategy maps. I needed anything to distract me from the scent of her that still clung to my skin, from the phantom feel of her trembling beneath my hands. I pushed open the door to my chambers, moving with a silent stealth that was second nature.
The room was bathed in the soft, grey light of pre-dawn. The furs in front of the hearth were a tangled mess, a testament to her feverish struggle. And on the bed…
My steps faltered. My breath caught in my throat.
She was asleep in my bed. Not just in the bed, but tangled in my sheets. One of my pillows was clutched in her arms, her face buried in it as if she were trying to breathe me in. She had kicked off the heavy furs, and the soft wool of her discarded smallclothes was a dark shadow on the floor. She was wearing my shirt. The black training shirt I had worn yesterday, the one she had so defiantly thrown into the hamper. It was far too big for her, the dark cotton a stark contrast to her pale skin, the hem falling to her mid-thigh. Her dark hair was a wild spill of silk over the pillow and my sheets.
The sight was a physical blow. It was an image of such profound, unthinking intimacy that it felt more violating than any kiss. It was a moment of pure, unguarded vulnerability, and it hit me with the force of a physical attack. All the air left my lungs. My hand went to the doorframe, my knuckles white, gripping the solid wood as if to keep myself upright.
I should leave. I should turn around and walk out, give her this moment of peace, reclaim the space as my own later. But I couldn't. I was rooted to the spot, my gaze devouring the sight of her. She looked… peaceful. The defiant lines of her face were softened in sleep, the perpetual worry gone from her brow. The sarcastic witch who constantly challenged my authority was gone. In her place was just a woman. A beautiful, stubborn, maddeningly captivating woman who was currently wearing my shirt and sleeping in my bed.
The possessive, primal part of my Lycan nature rose up with a roar of triumph. *Mine.* She was seeking my scent, my comfort, even in her sleep. She was gravitating toward me, her subconscious recognizing the bond, the mate, even if her waking mind fought it with every fiber of her being. It was a victory more profound than any battle I had ever won.
But the man, the king, felt something else. A strange, unfamiliar tightening in my chest. A protective instinct so fierce it was almost painful. She looked small. Fragile. And the urge to shield her from the world, from Marius, from Isolde, from me, was an overwhelming force. It wasn't about ownership. It was about… preservation. Of this spirit, this fire, this infuriatingly brilliant woman who had been thrust into my life.
I took a silent step into the room, my movements slow, deliberate, as if approaching a wild, sleeping creature. The grey light grew brighter, silvering the edges of the room. I could see the faint, silver mark of my claiming bite on the side of her neck, a stark brand against her pale skin where her dark hair had fallen away. It was a symbol of my tyranny, of the curse I had forced upon her. But looking at it now, in the quiet stillness of the morning, it looked like something else. A connection. A link.
I found myself moving closer, drawn by an invisible thread I couldn't, and didn't want to, resist. I stopped beside the bed, looking down at her. The scent of her was stronger here, a clean, sweet smell of honeysuckle and rain, but it was mingled with my own scent, with the clean, earthy smell of my pillow and my sheets. The combination was intoxicating. It was the scent of *us*.
Her breathing was soft and even. Her lips, which had been parted in a feverish gasp just hours ago, were now softly closed. I remembered the feel of them, just a breath from mine, the soft, pliant texture I had denied myself. The memory was a fresh stab of agonized frustration.
She shifted in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She rolled onto her side, curling into a tighter ball, and one of her hands came to rest on the empty space of the bed beside her. On the pillow where my head should have been. The gesture was so unconscious, so seeking, that it was a final, fatal blow to my composure.
This was not a captive seeking comfort from her captor. This was a mate seeking her other half. And I had left her alone. I had locked myself out of my own chambers like a frightened boy, afraid of the power she held over me.
The cold, hard mask of the Alpha King, the shield I had spent a lifetime constructing, felt like a fragile, brittle thing. Cracks were spreading across its surface, fissures from which a new, terrifying man was emerging. A man who didn't just want to control this woman, but wanted to protect her, to understand her, to… see her wake up in his bed every morning.
The thought was so dangerous, so revolutionary, that it sent a shockwave of pure, unadulterated fear through me. This was not part of the plan. This was not strategy. This was a weakness that could get us both killed. Marius was already using her against me. To feel this, to want this, was to hand my enemy the sharpest blade in my arsenal and point it directly at my own heart.
I had to get out. I had to retreat, rebuild my walls, reinforce the ice in my veins before it was too late.
But my body betrayed me. My hand, moving with a will of its own, reached out. My fingers, trembling slightly, gently brushed a stray strand of dark hair back from her cheek. The contact was a lightning strike. The bond, which had been a quiet hum of her sleep, flared to life. Not with pain or fever, but with a soft, warm wave of awareness. Her subconscious mind recognized my touch. She let out a soft, contented sigh, leaning into the contact almost imperceptibly.
The gesture was my undoing. The trust, however unconscious, was a gift I hadn't earned and didn't deserve. It was more powerful than any challenge, any defiance. It was a quiet surrender.
I snatched my hand back as if I had been burned. The sudden absence of her skin against mine was a cold, aching void. I stumbled back from the bed, my retreat clumsy, uncoordinated. I didn't look back. I fled the room, my heart hammering against my ribs with a frantic, terrified rhythm.
I didn't stop in the antechamber. I kept walking, striding through the silent, pre-dawn corridors of the stronghold, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. I needed distance. I needed the cold, hard clarity of the war room, the familiar comfort of maps and strategy.
But as I walked, I could still feel the soft texture of her skin on my fingertips. I could still see her sleeping form in my bed. I could still smell the scent of us mingled together. The ice in my veins refused to return. The cold, hard mask of the Alpha King refused to settle back into place. All I could feel was the terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly undeniable warmth of a new, dangerous dawn.
I had bound her to me with a bite, with magic. But in the quiet stillness of the morning, I realized with a chilling certainty that it was not her who was trapped in my cage. It was me. And I was terrifyingly, hopelessly, and completely okay with it.